


A Bit of Silk

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, angst and teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4595943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had the new gown made just for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of Silk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alayne_StoneColdFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alayne_StoneColdFox/gifts).



Her hands hovered over the silk as though it was liable to bite.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, after the weight of silence had grown too heavy. That was not a lie—it was the finest gown she had seen since the Lannisters had granted her one for her marriage. Perhaps that would explain the sharp sickness she felt in her throat.

Perhaps it was something more. Her fingers grazed the blue silk, the delicate pearls, and she could feel Petyr’s gaze following her every move. She didn’t need to look up to see the darkness in his eyes, the shadow of something more. Nothing, with him, came without a price.

“Am I to be wed so soon?” Alayne’s hand rested on the bodice, curling into the needlework there, her other hand curling into thicker fabric of her bastard garb.  _This was not a dress made for Alayne Stone_.

Petyr seemed to jump then, coming to her side in a rush of reassurance. “No, not yet. I merely thought…” She had never quite seen him at a loss for words; it concerned her, in a way. Alayne looked at him then, at the meticulousness of his own dress.  _He did this so I could stand at his side_.

He moved before finishing that thought, his long fingers encircling her waist. In the mirror before her she could see quite clearly how she towered over him, and yet in this moment he was in complete control, her breath quite lost. Rarely did he act instead of speak, and the significance of it was not lost on her. His hands were at the laces at the back of her dress, tugging.

“I think you should try it on.” They were pulling now and she felt herself pushed forward, sharply, her face hot.

“Should we not get a maid?” Her voice came out sharper than she intended but Petyr seemed not to hear, intent as he was on making this  _right_.

“You should not be so modest in front of your father.” She could hear the sharpness of his smile in his words, and she wondered if he did not believe them. It was growing harder and harder to tell, with him, where the ruse ended and the fantasy began, though perhaps that was merely because she had become so good at hiding herself.

As the rough silk fell away Petyr’s free hand locked about her waist, holding her in place. Her breath was stilled in her throat, her arms coming up to hide her shift-clothed form, her eyes not meeting his in the reflection of the glass as he went about his work. 

Her heat was pounding in her chest. All of this was wrong, and she was conscious of the unlatched door, of the whispers that would surely form if they were seen. The idea of rumor kept her from biting her tongue, but if she was entirely honest with herself that was not the whole reason. She looked down at the remnants of Alayne Stone scattered about her, at the too-fine dress on the bed, and then finally at the ache in Petyr’s reflected gaze. Something in the combination infused her with the act of movement and she leaned forward to gather the silk in her hands, to pull it towards her. It was lighter than she expected, the work fine.

“Let me help.” His voice was gentle, nothing of the harshness with which he had stripped her evident. His hands were shaking just a bit as the silk took form about her, and she wondered if this had not formed part of his fantasies for months.

She glanced at herself being remade, at the way the silk complimented her color. Petyr certainly knew what was best; there was nothing gaudy or off in the dress. It was a dress for a noblewoman of fashion, and not like anything the Vale had seen.

“There now. That’s a dress for my daughter.” With his words she came out of her daze, his fingers taking her chin in hand and forcing her to look upon them in the mirror. He was pressed against her, his other hand still at her waist, his eyes somewhat hazy. Alayne arched against him, feeling the need to keep herself alert. 

“It’s beautiful,” she repeated and he nodded his approval. She wondered if he even heard her.

**Author's Note:**

> Gifted to Sassclops, who gave me the amazing prompt!


End file.
